


Intoxicating

by emiliefitch



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Lesbian Character, Nonbinary Character, Original Character(s), Other, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 16:12:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14168646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emiliefitch/pseuds/emiliefitch
Summary: You find her enchanting. You tell her, or you think you do, or you touch her as if you have.





	Intoxicating

**Author's Note:**

> I liked this piece too much to tie it to any one fandom, so I neutralized it. I hope it makes you feel something, no matter what stage you decide to paint it on.

You attempt to shake her hand at the same time she reaches to hug you. You awkwardly smack into one another, your lips grazing her cheek in apology, her laugh the first dose of a drug tailored to you.

You offer to hold her beer and hand it back to her with a few more dents anxiously welded into it. You know she thinks of kissing you, then.

“Do you wanna dance?”  
“I can’t.”  
“I can’t either. Come on.”  
You’d let her drag you anywhere.

She takes your hand and pulls you into the pulsing crowd of people, and you’re sure that she can hear your heart hammering over the music. She pulls you closer and you spill half your drink down your own sleeve trying to keep up (you don’t tell her that she makes your hands shake). She spins you around and laughs at your smile, pulling you a little closer each time until you stumble over each other (she doesn’t tell you that you knocked her off-balance). You think about kissing her, then.

Maybe she can read your mind because she asks to kiss you. Perhaps your answer isn’t enough because she spins you around in tight nervous circles until you steady her with a hand on her jaw and kiss her more surely than you’ve ever done anything in your life.

 _She can roll her ‘r’s_ , you think. “Dario,” she says to the man with tricks up his sleeve. “Dario.” She shifts to light her cigarette and you’ve never wanted to fill someone’s lungs so badly. She laughs as she languidly returns the lighter to Dario’s hands that shake in comic withdrawal; you try to steady your own before taking the offered cigarette from her fingers, fixated by the way the smoke rolls off your tongue, hanging in the air as delicately as the snowflakes in her dark hair.

“Do you want my number?”  
“Yes,” she breathes as though this moment could shatter with the merest misspoken syllable. “Are you leaving?”  
“You’re too pretty to leave.”  
She ducks her head and looks away as she inhales, but the warm flare of her cigarette isn’t enough to hide the blush on her cheeks. You find her enchanting. You tell her, or you think you do, or you touch her as if you have.

“Do you need a ride home?” you ask (you’d ask anyone you cared for). She looks at you for a moment, seemingly forcing herself into a stance she’s still too shy for.  
“Yes.”  
She doesn’t stumble over her words as you do.

She decides she’d rather go home with you. She apologizes for kisses that knock your back into the rattling stove. You tell her to keep kissing you like that. She seems to be marveling at you, and you wrap your arms around her neck to pull her further into you, willing this reality to stick.

She’s so sure of everything she says, every way she touches you.  
“I could live here.”  
You sit in her lap in the armchair, hoping to anchor her, her words, your thoughts.  
“You’re so goddamn beautiful.”

She asks each time before touching you, and you’ve never found anything as arousing as the shy need behind her words. _There aren’t enough affirmative words in this language_ , you think. _There aren’t words to tell you this is all I need, all I’ve ever needed._

She asks you to drive her home and her anxiety hangs like a fog in the air around you. You pray you aren’t the reason.  
“I’m nonbinary. I wasn’t sure how to tell you.”  
“I’m sorry I fucked up your pronouns.”  
“You didn’t know.”  
“I’m apologizing regardless.”  
You can feel the tension melt away like the snow on your windshield.

There’s five inches of snow topped on two inches of sleet and their touch is ice cold across your burning thighs. They breathe more questions in your ear and all you can think is _please, please, please._ They sing to Chet Baker’s I Fall In Love Too Easily as it drawls through your speakers and the synchronicity of the moment takes your breath away as you’re pulled into the back seat.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”  
You beg to be molded into something other than yourself. They ask before ripping your lingerie and apologize after and you think there’s nothing more holy than the blooming bruises on your thighs and the scratches that sting along your hips. You aren't aware of the snow outside your windows, only blue eyes and tousled dark hair and lungs full of nothing but you.

“Next time…”  
There aren’t words to describe that you couldn’t possibly be more sated than you have been by their equal need and veneration. Finally, you can sense the weight of the peach blanket of snow outside your foggy windows, a chilly echo of the comforting weight of someone safe draped across your body. There’s nothing in the world as relieving, as grounding, as the relaxed weight of a person who wants nothing more than to be close to you, even after losing themselves in you. You hope your fingers gently combing through their hair braid a promise of their own.

That night, you sleep alone with your bedroom windows open, hoping to be buried with this feeling blooming beneath your kiss-bruised collarbones.


End file.
